


partners

by blueincandescence



Series: all's fair in love and cold war [9]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (spoilers heh heh heh), Battle Couple, Cabin Sex, Car Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-18 08:33:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14849336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueincandescence/pseuds/blueincandescence
Summary: When Illya needs help during a mission, Gaby is there in a heartbeat.





	partners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Somedeepmystery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedeepmystery/gifts).



> BIGGEST THANKS to Milkshakekate!!!!! Without whom my action sequences would be virtually unintelligible.

BURGAS FEBRUARY 1966

_i._

Illya, in Bulgaria for less than twenty-four hours, has acquired rose oil in a hand-carved bottle, three pairs of well-made wool socks, the stolen schematics for a doomsday missile, and a bullet wound.

Hissing breaths through clenched teeth, Illya applies more pressure to his side. The bullet only grazed him, but he’s bleeding like it went clean through. He would blame decadent Western living for his poor reflexes, except he is here on KGB business and five of Mother Russia’s finest have already bled out on the warehouse floor. Illya, loyalties ever suspect, is the lone survivor. He will have some explaining to do if he keeps it up.

Another volley of gunfire. Illya slides his rifle and a half-empty magazine case underneath a heavy metal container. Sets his teeth and rolls in after them.

A few THRUSH operatives try their luck, moving as a unit to circle in on him. Illya opens fire on their ankles. Over the screaming, he orders them to stop. He scrapes a flare to life, the glow throwing red illumination on dingy walls. _“Don’t come closer, or I burn the schematics!”_ He itches to do so. Would do so, were it not for orders from Waverly. Only the HQ lab rats have a chance of verifying which country broke the UN agreement to dream up this missile. One more modern horror.

The steady stream of Illya’s blood finds a crack to flow through. _“You’ll cry uncle soon enough!”_ a goon taunts, which lets Illya know his position, for the time being, is secure.

One hand presses his side, one hand digs through his canvas bag. Past the rolled-up schematics, past the cyanide tablets, past the rose oil gift. He takes out a square box with an on/off switch and a button that glows green when activated. Adrenaline drains from Illya’s body, sending a wave of pain shuddering through him. But he doesn’t cry uncle, not exactly.

He flicks the switch, murmurs, “Gaby,” like an invocation.

 

_ii._

The rhythm of the homing beacon accelerates with the speed on the odometer, to the force of Gaby’s pulse twinging in her neck. Her mission in Burgas was meant to be parallel. No intersections, Waverly had warned, of any kind. Gaby pumps the gas and whips the steering wheel down a tight alleyway. She’ll fail her mission. She won’t fail Illya.

The signal takes her to a warehouse on the fringes of the silent city. Gaby slows down on her approach, parks her car out of sight. She gathers supplies, almost takes the homing beacon. The steady beep is not attached to Illya’s heartbeat, but it’s the closest thing to an assurance she has.

Part of her wants to do this quick. Full-force, no foresight. Instinct and skill. That’s how the boys play it. Gaby takes her time. Figures out a strategy. Hotwires one of their rusted-out Volgas instead of compromising the best getaway car she’s ever built. A week ago, R&D cooked up the device Gaby clamps to the engine. All she’d had to do was say pretty please. Tonight will be its big debut.

Gaby lugs the equipment across the parking lot and up the fire escape. Her slippers make no sound on groaning metal. She’d been in bed when she heard the tell-tale sound of the beacon. Her robe is checkered yellow.

She climbs all the way to the roof. No guards, but the hatch is open where they must have run down when Illya and his comrades came calling. Gaby peers though, grimances. Former comrades. It was a bloodbath. But there is a circle of men around one metal container trading grumbles. They sound too exasperated, too impressed not to be waiting out the Red Peril.

Gaby lets out the breath she’s been holding. Sets up her equipment.

Showtime.

The Volga bursts through the flimsy metal doors. THRUSH lights it up, drawing bullets in its side like a black-and-white gangster picture. Gaby lets the car idle. Seven operatives altogether. They walk like street toughs up to the car, squinting at the lack of driver.

Gaby revs the engine to see them jump out of their skins. Then she floors it.

Men go running, thudding, flying. Gaby drives without watching the necessary carnage. Her eyes are on the metal container, on Illya slipping out. He’s wounded. In retaliation, she reverses until she hears a crunch.

Illya’s face is almost as white as his teeth, which gleam as he tilts a fierce grin at her. Hand over his heart.

He turns his rifle on the melee and it’s all over.

 

_iii._

Black dots swim in his vision, rendering the outside world as woozy as his insides. Still Illya manages not to lean too hard on Gaby as she helps him into the passenger seat. Her small, slender frame can’t bear his weight, but she holds him up in other ways.

Illya fades out and in. Gaby’s most biting tone: “Don’t think I’m cleaning your mess all alone. Eyes open!” He tries, but he can’t make sense of what he sees. Dirty slippers. A house frock. A flash of a syringe. A knee manipulating the steering wheel.

He focuses on the sweep of Gaby’s jaw. That stubborn chin he likes so well. “I would not have shot you,” he says.

Gaby darts her eyes toward him. Wary. Worried. “You’re the one who’s shot, Dummkopf.”

“In East Berlin,” Illya slurs. “When I drove up to you. I had gun. You were afraid.”

She snorts. Her nostrils stay flared. She’s looking at pooling blood. Her eyes are gleaming.

“So afraid,” Illya murmurs. He feels a wide pull across his mouth. “But you ask me to dance. I think, she is foolish. Or most brave woman.”

“Foolish,” Gaby retorts. “Now I’m stuck with you.”

“Da,” he says. His solemn vow. He keeps his eyes open, fights not to lose sight of her.

The needle jolts into his elbow, jerking him up with a shout of pure fight-or-flight. Gaby’s leaning in from the passenger door. The car has stopped. “You have to get up.” Gaby has procured a wheelchair and a shaken man in spectacles to push it. She holds him at gunpoint.

Illya is awake for the cleaning, the sutures. He bites down on leather. He holds the gurney for fear of breaking Gaby’s fingers. He’s had worse.

Leaning over, Gaby holds his face, checks his pulse. Illya tries to kiss the worry out of her eyes. Against his lips, she admonishes, “Imagine how nice it would be to kiss me not half-dead.” He tries to show remorse.

For the transfusion, Gaby lays down across from Illya. They lock hands and eyes. A perfect match. Her life flowing into his.

 

_iv._

Gaby drives with precision. She wears a dress and heels stolen out of a nurse’s locker. Her passenger seat is soaked in blood. So is her passenger. Jammed under her seat are schematics worth millions of dollars. Millions of lives. She’s running from a massacre. No one knows to look for them in the backwaters of the Julian Alps, out among the sheep. That doesn’t mean no one will find them.

It’s been half a day. Gaby is exhausted. Illya is silent, eyes closed but not asleep. She watches him in the rearview mirror. Knows he must feel useless. Illya doesn’t nurse his wounds, he licks them. Aggravates them. He had grunted in approval when she headed west. “East means questions,” he said.

The KGB will wonder if he has defected at last. Standard operating procedure, as far as Gaby is concerned. Illya has stopped taking it personally. He still worries over it. The bullet that had ripped a hole in his side wasn’t Russian-made. Someday it will be.

And when that day comes, Gaby is fully prepared to drive farther, faster than she ever has. She considers this good practice.

Night falls. Gaby follows a frost-covered dirt road to a cabin with no signs of life. Illya, limping, insists on being the one to carry the wood, light the fire. Gaby makes them dinner from cans. She has Illya drag a mattress in front of the hearth. They soak cloths in freezing water and wash each other clean.

Sinking onto the mattress, Gaby arranges her naked body to drape over Illya's unwounded side. She traces around his fresh bandage. “If all had gone to plan,” she murmurs, “how long do you think we would have lasted in Burgas? One night? Two?”

Illya skates his broad fingers over her bare shoulder. He gives a slight shake of his head, a mournful tsk. Then licks down her collarbone to her breasts.

Gaby sighs into his kisses. Agrees. Even one night is too long.

They ready each other with touches as charged as the crackle of the wood in the fireplace, as hot as the flames heating the room, as gentle as the flickering light.

Gaby turns her back against Illya’s hard frame, twines her leg around his raised arm, careful not to brush his side. He enters her from behind, that delicious spread. She rocks her hips, fucks herself on his cock. Illya presses his moans into her hair, against her neck. His fingers work her clit. He creasts inside her. Makes her come on his softening cock.

Illya had set out a basin of water to warm by the fire. Gaby brings a cloth and they wash each other again, knowing it won’t be long before another repeat of this ritual. Knowing they could go on like this forever. Knowing they only dare take tonight.

 

_v._

“This is very bad idea,” Illya tells Gaby when he comes back to the car, having mailed Gaby’s very bad idea in letter form to an UNCLE snitch in Berlin. By tomorrow morning, the black market on both sides of the Wall will be buzzing with news of a silent auction—the missile plans the big ticket item.

Gaby pushes her sunglasses up her pert nose. Smiles wide. “Napoleon will simply die, he loves a surprise party.” She cranks the wheel, one hand atop the other, as she maneuvers them back onto the open road.

“Interesting choice of words,” Illya grumbles. His stitches itch, but he keeps his hands spread flat on his knees.

“Oh, don’t fuss.” Gaby stacks a hand on top of his. “It’s an invitation. All we have to do is sit back and see who RSVPs.” She shrugs. Even bundled in a scarf and coat Gaby Teller is a dainty woman. A stubborn woman.

It is a bad idea. But a solid plan.

The auction is to take place in Geneva. Neutral territory. Illya feeds Gaby chocolates during the drive. When he takes the wheel, she sips wine straight from the bottle and puts her bare feet in his lap. They talk about the homes they pass, the people who must inhabit them. Their unremarkable, unattainable lives. Illya massages Gaby’s ankles. Tries not to hold on too tight.

Too cold to venture outside, they picnic in the heat of the car. Illya trails the lean line of Gaby’s stock-free legs, mournful. His wound is too low on his side, too vulnerable to those strong thighs. And Gaby has already detailed what will happen to him if he gets any more blood on her upholstery.

A wicked glint in big brown eyes is his only warning. Gaby swigs her wine. Props her feet on his leg, and spreads her knees. “If you want to look at something.” She pushes thin fabric aside, strokes between her folds.

Eyes half-lidded, sticky lips parted, Illya starts to lean across the seat but comes up short with a jolt of pain.

Gaby pushes him upright, her toes brushing down his sweater. “Stay over there. I’ll get to you.” She thrums her clit. Dips inside. Never looks away from him until her eyes roll back. Until the scent of her pleasure has marked the car, marked him.

His cock is wedged against the underside of the steering wheel. Gaby climbs onto her knees. Leans over to free him. Illya sucks in a breath, holds it in anticipation of her hand gliding his foreskin, her lips parting over his cock. Her hot, wet tongue.

Illya moans, fisting his hand in Gaby’s chignon. “Proshu—” She sucks hard. His palm shoots out, crashing into the horn. Gaby starts, blinks up at him. Scoffs. Illya reddens. “Sorry.” Gaby’s soft chuckles hum along his cock.

She drinks him down as he comes until he’s boneless.

Thoroughly satisfied with herself, his cunning little minx lounges back against the passenger door. Tells him after she wipes the sheen around her lips, “Now that was a very bad idea.”

Illya only has enough breath to offer a huff of approval.

 

_vi._

Smirking outright, Gaby leans against the catwalk railing and watches her plan unfold through a pair of borrowed opera glasses. Across the small theater, Illya watches the same crowd shifting in their seats through a sniper scope. Napoleon, face obscured by the bushiest mustache this side of Istanbul, plays auction master on the stage below.

Gaby grew up on the black market, so she isn’t surprised by the mishmashed crowd the auction has drawn. Hausfraus and bookies and complete tourists—except any one of them could represent THRUSH. Or Mao or the Pentagon or General Motors. This is a strange time for espionage, as Waverly is fond of saying. Gaby has already spotted two men she recognizes from her time undercover with THRUSH, one of whom seems to be on very close terms with a woman she knows for a fact works in the kitchens at INTERPOL headquarters. A strange time indeed.

The missile schematics are the last item up for bid. Not the genuine article, but close enough to make the charade work in their favor. Crossing to the other side of the catwalk, Gaby can stare right down on the phony duplicate in the glass case and the four armed guards that surround it. The guards are employed by the black market auction house Napoleon has infiltrated, the one that will take a percentage of the sale. No questions asked, no money back guarantee. A good thing, since, with a blessing from HQ, Illya burned the original copy after Napoleon put the finishing touches on a version that was identical—save for one or two neutralizing alterations.

Beyond letting Napoleon test drive his cover, Gaby has insisted from the beginning the only purpose of her plan is surveillance. See who bids the most. Track who they work for. Uncover corruption. No muss, no fuss. Simple. A Gaby Teller op through and through.

Illya had grumbled again when she laid out the plan. No muss? Unheard of with these outrageous UNCLE schemes. Even Napoleon had given her a look. No fuss? Why even get out of bed in the morning? Something about the two of them coming together never failed to bring out the smug.

And damn them for being right.

The largest guard hits the ground face-first, pooling blood. The other guards jump back, lift their guns but are taken out one by one by the softest gunfire she’s ever heard. Puffs of air and then splat. Gaby leans down, frantic to see who is fouling up her beautiful plan. A lithe figure dressed all in black.

While the figure is stuck dealing with Napoleon’s glass-case security, Gaby drops a handkerchief on stage to signal to the boys they’re about to get that muss and fuss they always anticipate.

Gaby turns to throw a look across the theater. Illya’s eyes bore into hers—stand down, stay safe. Gaby’s chin lifts and sets. She doesn’t begrudge him the instinct to protect her, so long as he doesn’t begrudge her optimism for a plan that goes to...well.

The weight of Illya’s sigh is heavy even across the theater. Gaby lifts her chin higher. Illya raises his arm along with it, signaling that he is on his way.

He really is the most wonderful partner.

Gaby grins as she pulls her gun out of her purse and tests the strength of the nearest hanging rope. She times her descent with the speed of Illya’s best wounded sprint, and leaps over the rail without hesitation.


End file.
